Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

"You're so grown up, but you can't even pick a fish," Twenty Faces shook his head, a hint of ridicule in his tone, "How can you write something like this?"

Twenty Faces said nothing more, but simply returned his gaze to the fish bucket. He bent down, carefully examining the fish, his fingertips gently tracing its body once more.

"This fish is good, boss, let's take this one." Twenty-Faced Man stood up straight, turned around and said to the shop owner standing beside him, with some certainty in his voice.

The boss's face immediately broke into a smile, the fine lines around his eyes condensing in his smile. He was clearly delighted to have sold the fish. He quickly picked up the fish knife and prepared to expertly clean the fish for the Twenty-Faced Man, his movements smooth and effortless. However, the Twenty-Faced Man suddenly stopped him with a hand and shook his head slightly.

"Don't bother," Twenty Faces motioned the boss to stop, "Just pack it up. Fill a plastic bag with water and put the fish in it."

The boss was stunned for a moment, but soon understood what he meant and nodded to do as he was told. He took out a large transparent plastic bag, scooped some cold water from the bucket into it with a spoon, and then put the lively tuna in. The water in the bag slapped against the plastic, making a slight sound.

Ryosuke carried a plastic bag, the tuna inside swaying restlessly in the water. He trotted to keep up with the Twenty-Faced Man, his footsteps making a soft, clacking sound on the wet ground.

"Mr. Hirai, I've been wondering about something," Ryosuke finally summoned the courage to ask. "I'm wondering, in your opinion, what will society be like thirty years from now?"

Twenty people stood with their hands behind their backs, walking at a leisurely pace, their steps appearing extremely steady. "I can't tell," he replied indifferently, "how could I understand the affairs of your generation?"

"But your work clearly reflects the era..." Ryosuke was a little unwilling to accept it. He knew that Twenty Faces didn't like discussing modern things with him, especially issues involving social changes, but he couldn't help but ask, "Even your skills clearly include human observation?"

"People of their era write about things that reflect their era," Twenty Faces paused, tilting his head slightly to glance at him. "It's a bit too difficult for me, a person who died thirty years ago, to comment on this era."

"As for human observation? That thing has nothing to do with me." The Twenty-Faced Physician waved his hand and continued walking forward. "It's just used to observe other people so that I can pretend to be them."

They walked around a stall and reached the corner, the sunlight lengthening their shadows behind them. Ryosuke pondered for a long time, then posed another question: "Then... you are clearly the founder of the Japanese orthodox school, so why did you switch to... the heterodox school in the early Showa period?"

"Haha, you clearly already have the answer in your mind," the Twenty Faces chuckled. He stopped, turned around, and stared directly at Ryosuke with narrowed eyes. "Why are you asking me this in such a roundabout way? Is that really necessary?"

Ryosuke felt a little embarrassed by his gaze, but Twenty Faces' eyes didn't contain any reproach, but rather a hint of patience. "So-called murder is nothing more than a manifestation of human bestiality," Twenty Faces said calmly. "What I described was merely the bestiality I saw at that time."

"The short-lived Taisho era was ultimately unable to resist the inertia accumulated over two hundred years." He paused, looking up at the buildings lining the street, as if recalling something. After a moment, he continued, "Just when we finally saw the dawn of a chance to break free from it, a new samurai dynasty loomed over Showa. The old shogunate was nothing more than a samurai dynasty, and the new government is nothing more than a samurai dynasty."

"The bestiality condensed by swords and weapons once again gnaws at the few remaining vestiges of humanity forged during the Taisho era," Ryosuke listened quietly as they slowly walked through the streets, the vendors and pedestrians beside them seeming to become a backdrop. "Ah, the 14th year of the Taisho era was ultimately a dreamlike illusion."

"There's no such thing as a true or false style. What I write is always the same." Twenty Faces' voice was tinged with sadness. "I can't write anymore. I can't bear to read it either."

"I just wanted kids to be free from that kind of stuff, so I went to 'The Boys' Club' and wrote 'Twenty Faces'."

At the other end of the street, a traffic policeman dressed as a samurai in a cheap plastic red suit was waving his arms to direct the passing vehicles, with a smile on his face, as if he was completely immersed in his role.

Twenty Faces pointed at the traffic officer, his tone tinged with sarcasm. "But even so, those beasts still want to tear at the humanity we depict," he continued. "Around 1939, detective novels became a key target of their scrutiny. Ha, they seem to understand exactly where the orthodox school's spearhead is headed."

"That's my opinion," said the Twenty Faces, without turning his head. "But what does that have to do with you?"

Ryosuke was silent for a moment, then whispered, "I was just thinking... I just wanted to know some of the thoughts of people from that era."

"There's no point in asking that." Twenty Faces shook his head and sighed softly, "Individual humanity cannot resist the brutality of the times. If you ask a person, you'll only get an answer filtered by his perspective."

"But it's equally absurd to blame everything on the times," Ryosuke retorted, frowning. "It was clearly a sin, so why are there still people who are unwilling to admit it? That era is clearly over..."

"Where did it go?" Twenty Faces sneered, yawned, and lazily asked, "Or has the Restoration of Imperial Rule happened all over again in the past thirty years? That would be fantastic."

Ryosuke was speechless for a moment after hearing his words and could only sigh helplessly.

"Look at the people in this market. Aren't their smiles genuine? I really don't see any trace of animality in them," he said, pointing again at the traffic policeman dressed as a samurai at the intersection ahead. "It was like this during the Taisho era, too. We're all just human beings. Where's the trace of animality? Even if there's a little bit of animality, it's harmless—"

"—But why did it become like that in just a few years? It's hard to imagine how fanaticism could destroy human nature so easily."

"You need to learn to see and hear for yourself," said the Twenty Faces. "Chewing over other people's words and spitting them out again is useless except for disgusting them."

"Those who rely on fixed rhetoric for their thinking are ultimately nothing more than slaves to that rhetoric."

The man with the Twenty Faces looked off into the distance, whether he was reminiscing or sighing. Ryosuke didn't ask any more questions, but just followed him quietly, thinking about the conversation just now.

Ryosuke and Twenty Faces slowly made their way along the market street, surrounded by a constant clamor and shouting. People were busy preparing for the New Year, vendors were warmly greeting customers, and the winter sun shone through the gaps between the tall buildings, illuminating the smiling faces and the plastic bag of tuna Ryosuke was carrying. The tuna flapped restlessly, creating small ripples on the water.

After an unknown amount of time, Ryosuke looked at the fish in the plastic bag and finally broke the silence, "Speaking of which, what are you going to do with this fish?" His tone was relaxed, and he seemed to no longer want to ask those heavy topics about society and the times, but instead casually chatted about trivial matters in life.

"Hmm, it..." Twenty Faces' gaze fell on the struggling tuna, as if he was seriously considering it. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I plan to use it to make a very rich tempura dish—"

"—and use it to commit a murder."

Ryosuke didn't react for a moment and was stunned for a moment, "Huh?" He widened his eyes in surprise, not expecting such an answer.

"What's wrong?" Twenty Faces said with a smile, "Isn't this what an Assassin should do?"

"So you were joking..." Ryosuke breathed a sigh of relief after hearing this.

"Ah? Isn't this a funny joke?" Twenty Faces narrowed his eyes, a faint smile still playing on his lips. "Letting the guy who died from eating tuna tempura die again from it is just in line with fate, no matter what."

"Ha ha ha ha……"

They continued walking, the surroundings slowly becoming familiar. Twenty Faces seemed to suddenly remember something, and his tone changed. "By the way, did that teacher give you a ticket?" he asked calmly. "It's about time. Give me the fish, and you can go and see for yourself."

"Aren't you going?" Ryosuke asked hesitantly.

"Ha," Twenty Faces sneered contemptuously, "If I go with you, you'll drag me along and ask me all sorts of questions, like a yes-man."

------------------

Well, the hidden clue has almost been revealed. I believe everyone has guessed the real name of the servant named Twenty Faces.

When I was conceiving the character design, I noticed his views on the orthodox school, reasoning and murder: "Murder is a manifestation of human bestiality, and the evil of bestiality should be exposed through detective novels." Based on this view, I designed the character design of this servant and gave him a skill similar to Andersen's, human observation.

To be honest, this beast nature combined with the beast setting in Fate always gives me a weird sense of déjà vu, Hans Christian Andersen? (x

Although it is the same skill as Andersen, the subtle differences are also quite large. If the detailed settings cannot be clearly expressed in the main storyline, I will write them into the character card information (

Then it's time to speed up. After going through all the necessary events set by everyone, it's time to enter the last night of 1999.

Volume 26: The Kyoto Holy Grail War Without a Nagging Message: . Dream

Alex suddenly found himself standing on an unfamiliar road.

It was a winding road, with cotton fields on either side swaying gently in the breeze, like white waves rolling across the fields. The sun was bright, but not scorching. Instead, it had a warm, soothing feel that fell on him, giving him a familiar sense of security.

From the trees lining the road, occasional birdsong emanated, crisp and melodious, a tribute to the tranquility. In the distance, an old Ford slowly drove by. The driver, wearing a straw hat and half-closed his eyes, seemed to be enjoying this rare leisure time. Not far from the road, a few simple wooden houses stood, their walls gray from constant exposure to wind and sun, their roofs slightly damaged. A few farmers, heads bowed, toiled in the fields.

The air was filled with the scent of earth, mixed with some hot and humid water vapor. As the breeze blew, Alex heard the melodious sound of a harmonica coming from afar. It was a lonely and mournful melody. Deep and lingering, it seemed to be telling the bitterness of the black soil of the South.

It was the blues, a minor key he recognized instantly. The melody flowed like a dark river deep within his heart. He remembered he was still participating in the Holy Grail War, so why was he suddenly here?

He subconsciously tried to look around, but found he couldn't control his body at all. His feet seemed to be nailed to the ground, and his eyes could only focus on the scene before him. In front of him, a black man was sitting on a rock beside the road, holding an acoustic guitar, leisurely strumming a song that he was very familiar with.

——Me And The Devil Blues

The man sat on the stone, leaning forward slightly, his fingers dancing lightly over the strings of his guitar. His legs crossed, his heels tapping rhythmically on the ground, following the rhythm of his strumming. His left hand gripped the neck of the guitar, his long fingers pressing each note precisely on the fretboard.

"You knocked on my door early this morning," his deep voice echoed through the night, a raspy quality. His left hand suddenly slid upward, sliding across the strings, producing a hoarse glissando. His right thumb plucked the sixth string heavily, creating a low sigh.

"I said: Hello, Satan--" His voice stretched out slightly on this syllable, and his right thumb suddenly plucked the bass string, creating a deep and powerful bass chord, like the rhythm of footsteps on a gravel road.

"-It's time to hit the road." His voice was low and long, and the index finger of his left hand quickly slid to a higher fret, while the thumb of his right hand gently plucked the bass string, making a low and strange sound, as if footsteps were gradually fading away on an empty road.

“I was walking shoulder to shoulder with the devil,” he repeated, his left hand moving swiftly across the fretboard while his right hand continued to pluck the strings, playing low chords and fast melody lines.

"The devil and I, oh, walk shoulder to shoulder." His voice gradually became lower, and his fingers gently plucked the strings, producing a soft and long ending sound.

"How about this, Bruce?" He slapped the guitar lightly with his rough palm, making a dull sound. "This is the song I wrote for you."

Alex, at that moment, seemed to have become a different person—or rather, he was now looking back at his memories from the perspective of the man called Bruce. The images in his mind slowly dispersed like dust blown by the wind.

"You're going to be a blast, I bet." Bruce said, his words echoing slightly as if from afar. He spoke a few words in an unknown language, but both Alex and the black man understood his meaning.

"But my friend, please don't play it anymore."

"Hey, are you going to tell me about fate again? But I've been practicing guitar for so long, just for this moment." The black man whispered, his hand still tightly gripping the guitar. "Are you going to let me fall just before realizing my dream?"

"But you will die, when you are 27..."

"Then I'd better realize my dream before I turn 27." The black man grinned, revealing his white teeth. Then he lowered his head again and his fingers began to dance on the strings.

"You can bury my body, right by the road," he sang with an indescribable carefreeness in his voice, "Baby, I don't care where you bury me." His voice echoed in the empty night sky with the vibration of the strings, as if dancing with the wind.

Bruce listened to the black man's singing and playing, and couldn't help but follow the beat. His hands gently slapped his knees, and his body swayed slightly. Although he was a devil, he was following an ordinary person and immersed in his music.

After the song, the black man's fingers slowly stopped playing, the lingering sound of the strings still trembling slightly, as if tears were rolling in the corners of his eyes. He raised his head and looked at Bruce, as if he suddenly remembered something.

"Hey, can't you devils take other people's souls?" He smiled, showing his shining teeth again. "Since I will die when I am 27, I might as well give my soul to you after I die."

"I have nothing to give you." Bruce was silent for a moment and shook his head. His voice was very soft, as if he was talking to himself. "You rejected the devil's playing technique and surpassed it in such a short time. Your inner desire is nothing more than..."

"Let's make a bet, Faust." The black man suddenly interrupted him, "You said that if I continue to stick to my music, then my fate is to die at the age of 27-"

"—Then follow me and see how I realize my dream, how I survive and crush this damn fate. If I really die at the age of 27, my soul will be yours."

"But if I don't die at 27," the black man continued, his lips curled up slightly, revealing a disdainful smile, "then I win. I want you to be called Bruce from now on. How about that?"

Before Bruce could respond, the black man grabbed his hand and pulled him off the road.

"I believe it's time to go," he sang.

Alex's vision suddenly blurred, and darkness surged in like a tide, engulfing his consciousness. Suddenly, his vision brightened, a blinding beam of light piercing the darkness. With the appearance of light, Alex's consciousness seemed to be drawn back to an unfamiliar scene. The scene before him shifted rapidly, like a montage in a movie, flickering quickly and chaotically.

Alex's gaze wandered through the dim space until a tall man in a jacket and flared pants gradually came into view. He was tall and slender, a figure swaying in the wind. His hair was disheveled, carelessly draped over his shoulders. His eyes were half-closed, his expression dazed. In his left hand, he clutched a battered guitar. In his right, he held a bottle of Red Label whiskey, the amber liquid gleaming faintly in the dim light. His steps were light and casual, his lips slightly raised, his face tinged with a hint of drunken satisfaction, as if he had just stepped away from a frenetic performance.

The scene suddenly changed, and Alex found himself in a gloomy room. The old wallpaper had yellowed, moss grew in the corners, and the air was filled with the smell of stale tobacco and decay. A man in a dark coat stood in a corner. His hair was dishevelled, seemingly untended, and stubble covered his chin. He looked haggard and exhausted. He leaned over a battered piano, his fingers gently tapping the keys. The sound echoed in the empty room, carrying an unspeakable sadness and despair.

New images began to flash before Alex's eyes, like some surreal dream. He saw a man standing in the center of a nearby stage, dressed in a tight, sequined bodysuit that shimmered in the lights. His blond hair was disheveled, like a wild animal in motion. Under a shimmering red and purple light, he twisted his body, his movements jerking and throbbing like spasms. The audience screamed like crazy, as if under a spell. All around him was a frenzy of shouts and yells, and the crowd below surged forward like a tide, seemingly trying to devour him.

The images flickered faster and faster, and the details became blurred, as if everything was spinning rapidly. Despite this, Alex could clearly hear the warning in every flash of the image -

"—Don't go on like this, or you'll die at 27."

A blinding white light suddenly appeared, illuminating Alex's vision. The scene before him shifted instantly, transforming into a dimly lit recording studio. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat, and the walls were cluttered with music posters and graffiti. A thin, long-haired man sat in a corner, a lit cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around his weary face. With his other hand, he was rapidly scribbling lyrics in a notebook. The messy handwriting on the paper was filled with traces of impatience and anger.

"Cobain," Alex—or Bruce—took the initiative when he saw the man stop writing, "give up grunge, stop dwelling on..."

"How dare you, a fucking devil, say such bullshit?" Kurt Cobain raised his head, his eyes tired, and spoke with a stubborn determination, "For people like us, the only real thing is the anger and pain sliding in our throats—"

"—and now you're telling me to give up this one struggle?" Kurt Cobain stared at Bruce coldly. "Bruce, if you want my soul, just take it after I die."

"You'll die of suicide in two years."

Kurt Cobain smiled quietly, his eyes revealing an almost sad mockery: "So I should live like a dead tree? The commercial rock that fills my ears makes me want to vomit, but the funny thing is that I play that damn song over and over in every performance now."

"But you will get enough wealth to make you rich for a lifetime," Bruce extended his hand to Kurt Cobain, "and I will also give you a long life, how about that?"

"Ha, is this the devil's temptation?" Kurt Cobain laughed contemptuously and pushed Bruce's hand away, "You are the worst devil I have ever seen--"

"--Listen, instead of letting me linger on like this, I'd rather let me burn to my heart's content in these last two years."

As Kurt Cobain finished his words, a revolving lantern of images flashed wildly through Alex's mind once again. Like fragmented film, they raced before his eyes, a cacophony of light and shadow, a glimpse of reality and illusion. Each frame cruelly and clearly depicted the same man: Kurt Cobain. His face grew increasingly gaunt, his sunken eye sockets bloodshot. Those once vibrant eyes now betrayed an unconcealable weariness and despair.

Alex saw countless "selves" reaching out to Cobain, but every attempt was coldly rejected by him.

The final scene suddenly froze in Alex's mind. It was a strangely familiar room, its dark corners littered with cigarette butts and empty bottles. The air was thick with the lingering smell of decay. Cobain sat in the center of the room, a black pistol in his hand, the muzzle pressed coldly to his chin.

Then, in the silence, gunshots erupted, like thunder, ripping Alex's eardrums apart. Blood-red flowers blossomed above Cobain's head.

Alex opened his eyes abruptly, his chest heaving violently. He gasped for air, trying to dispel the overwhelming fear. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, as if it was about to burst out. Everything around him gradually became real and clear.

At this moment, he was lying in a small lounge. The worn sofa exuded the smell of aged leather. The small ceiling light bulb was dim and flickering, emitting a faint hum. The air in the room was murky, filled with the smell of sweat and cigarettes. All around him were various instruments and equipment piled in disarray. The walls were covered with old posters, the paper yellowed, the curled corners bearing the marks of time.

"Is this a dream...ha..."

Next to him sat his follower, Kurt Cobain. His eyes were half-closed, an unlit cigarette was clutched in his hand, his fingers trembling slightly, and his gaze was staring blankly ahead.

Alex turned his head slightly and saw a familiar figure standing at the door of the lounge. It was the owner of the Livehouse, a little old man. His voice was loud and powerful, penetrating the dullness of the room.

"Alex, wake up. It's your turn to go on stage in two hours. Get up and practice some more." Although he is Japanese, the English he speaks is quite authentic, without any hint of Japanese English.

"If the guy next to you hadn't played grunge, how could I have given you such a big discount?"

Alex nodded, took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself. Seeing that Alex had finally woken up, the boss turned and left. The room fell into silence again, with only the light bulb on the ceiling humming softly. Alex raised his hand and touched his face, feeling a chill and sweat.

"Sorry, brother, I slept a little too long." Alex scratched his head vigorously, trying to wake himself up from the chaotic state he was in. His mind was blurry, and the scenes in his dream were fading rapidly, like mist dispersing in the morning light.

The moment Kurt Cobain shot himself, the image of blood splattering all over the wall like ink is still horrifyingly clear.

He shook his head and felt a little dizzy, but he closed his eyes tightly and tried to pull himself back to reality.

"You were once a rock star, but now your comeback performance can only be held in such a small place. It's really unworthy of you." Alex looked around the small space and couldn't help but sigh. There was a hint of lighthearted ridicule in his voice, but as soon as he finished speaking, he noticed that Kurt Cobain's expression became subtle.

"Of course, of course, brother, I understand, this is what you want." Alex took the guitar from the stand beside him and connected it to an octave effect pedal -

——Of course he wanted to perform on the same stage with Cobain as a guitarist, but in the absence of a bassist, the lack of bass range would be particularly awkward in a live environment, so he could only add a block to let himself be responsible for the bass part.

"Fuck commercials, even if no one pays any attention to us," Alex said, deftly tuning his guitar. "Fuck Smells Like Teen Spirit."

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After this chapter sets the stage for the next one, it's time to move on to the climax and conclusion. Today, I've taken the time to cut out unnecessary side quests, and while ensuring the characters are as well-rounded as possible, I've moved the timeline to before the war begins. As for why it's the Bersercer group...

Because they were the first group to leave, it would be too late if they didn't lay the foundation (

Then I actually wrote a setting here that is um... not very Type-Moon-like. The artists in Type-Moon are either related to Outer Gods or something like that, but I think this is too far-fetched, just like what I wrote before about Edogawa Ranpo. In fact, this author is indeed very suitable for sewing in Outer Gods and the like. His pen name is a homonym of Edgar Allan Poe, and his avant-garde works are also quite "strange".

But I don't like this, and the same goes for Cobain and others here. I don't like to add something like "they made a deal with the devil to do this and that" to them. This sentence sounds as humorous as saying that someone is cheating when you see them playing games well.